You can too! Just sign up to volunteer and you can go for relatively no cost! Yeah, you’ve got to work some shifts, but with my schedule I’ll be able to see all the big bands I want to that ultimately make it worth it (Jack White, Modest Mouse, CAKE, Black Keys, Flaming Lips). Doooo it.
Yes you. The person sitting at their computer in their pajama pants at 3 in the afternoon on a Friday, blogging about Sherlock and wondering what to do with your life now that you’ve lost all semblance of meaning or structure post-college. Or it’s summer.
I know what you’re thinking.
You’re thinking it’s hot. You’re thinking it’s not just hot, it’s Satan’s bikini line hot; it’s hot coffee water bed hot; it’s “why does God hate my sex life because I can’t subject another human to my sweaty genitals” hot. It’s realizing how dumb the word “hot” looks because you’ve thought about it for so long…hot.
Therefore you want something cold right? But not just cold: you want something that’ll give you the overwhelming feeling of sexual inadequacy and misery that tags along with the understanding that you have over a pound of frozen dairy that will remain dormant in your colon for the next month!
But wait! You also say you want cinnamon? So much cinnamon that it bores through your blood stream, entering every main ventricle pulsing through your body, eventually turning your retinas the color of rusted steel?
Well I have the antidote for your woes my friend.
Boom, Sally Struthers.
This is the end of civilization. Not in a “nuclear warfare creates mutant armadillos whose mutant shells repel all forms of artillery, eventually becoming the dominant species and destroying the human race,” way. But it does mark the point where, advancement, progress, moving forward… they’re all moot at this point. We can stop trying and rest on our laurels until the sun engulfs us into it’s unforgiving embrace, like a passive aggressive suburban aunt who wants your inheritance and is hoping her hug will suck your breath into her bosom.
As long as this ice cream exists, we’ve served our purpose on Earth. Congratulations.
So the next time you go to reach into the ice cream cooler of the super market, holding your head a little longer while you hope you can freeze time as you wonder whether or not giving up all that you hold dear while you gets some shitty 9-5 sales job so you can pay for a new pair of socks is a wise choice or if you should go on eating dinner on the single cardboard box you moved all of your shit into your studio apartment with, just remember: to the left of your numb, emotionally paralyzed head is humanity’s greatest achievement.
And nobody can take that away from you. Now get that spoon and celebrate with the rest of humanity.
“Science revolts me when it becomes a speculative system and loses its utilitarian character - which is so useless - but is at least individual. I hate slimy objectivity, and harmony, the science that considers that everything is always in order. Carry on, children, humanity … Science says that we are nature’s servants: everything is in order, make both love and war. Carry on, children, humanity, nice kind bourgeois and virgin journalists…”—Tristan Tzara, Dada Manifesto, 1918 (via spacebaw)
“He felts his smile slide away, melt, fold over and down on itself like a tallow skin, like the stuff of a fantastic candle burning too long and now collapsing and now blown out. Darkness. He was not happy. He was not happy. He said the words to himself. He recognized this as the true state of affairs. He wore his happiness like a mask and the girl had run off across the lawn with the mask and there was no way of going to knock on her door and ask for it back.”—Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451.
I spent the winter with my nose buried in a book While trying to restructure my character Because it had become vile to its creator And through many dreadful nights I lay praying to a saint that nobody has heard of And waiting for some high times to come again
This album is so good I can’t listen to anything else by them without going back to it. Don’t tell me their earlier albums were better, I’ve heard them already. You’re wrong.
Fucking banana bread recipes that fucking can’t get the fucking time right and leaves you pulling the fucking bread out of the fucking oven burnt to a fucking crisp like it came out of fucking Pompeii.
"Balls out like a male stripper" in that that’s what a male stripper does, not that he looks like a male stripper. Although, imagining a male stripper screaming at their client in that stance is pretty hilarious. Think of some buff dude in a speedo lined with sequins holding his junk loosely like a change purse, arms outstretched like he’s trying to take off like Iron Man just tearing into some lady whose hairdo is out of fucking Edward Scissorhands.
sitting motionless on the green couch in my parents’ house
watching Allen Ginsberg talk about cocks
That everyone owns a suit.
My parents own suits.
My boss owns suit.
My teachers, idols, and teachers’ idols own suits.
Allen Ginsberg and his cock owned a suit.
Poor people in the 50s owned suits.
And you can bet your ass rich people own suits.
Everyone owns a suit.
But I don’t. I want one. But I can’t own one.
Not even an indiscriminate rag from the Salvation Army that might have been owned and worn by someone’s grandfather who went to the Elk’s lodge for Bingo every Monday at 6:30 hoping to score until he croaked, whose pockets are worn down by the constant reentry of cigarettes and pocket change, marked down to half price with the pink tag on the shoulder. Who can afford it?
My question is this: if everyone owns a suit, and I don’t, am I not everyone?
Is this why I’m motionless?
Reblogging this from myself because I quite like it and would like it if you were to read it.
I made a list of my 10 “desert island” albums when I was, I don’t know, fifteen-ish? I had recently started thinking of the idea again when I realized I had to update it to include a new addition (more in a minute). In thinking about it, the idea began to become more interesting over time. It’s not your 10 favorite albums, as that’s far too complete an idea. Rather, the idea is that, were you stranded upon an island with no people, no hope for rescue, and by some divine providence were allowed the choice of 10 pieces of recorded music, what do you feel at this juncture in your life could keep you sane?
It calls into question how social relations apply to music. Were you to eliminate that entirely, what could you still listen to that would still produce a semblance of meaning?
With that in mind, here’s my ten in no particular order.
The Avalanches - “Since I Left You” (probably the easiest album to pick; so many years after discovering this album, I’m still putting together nuances. I could easily go the rest of my life with just this one album)
The Dead Milkmen - “Metaphysical Graffiti”
Talking Heads - “Remain in Light” (used to be Stop Making Sense, but I feel this album is more transcendent in relation to the lack of social bonds)
Neutral Milk Hotel - “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea”
Tom Waits - “Orphans” (yes I’m kind cheating with this one, fuck off)
Thelonious Monk - “Thelonious Alone in San Francisco” (probably the most recent addition of all, this album is absolutely glorious and does a superb job at presenting an instrumental jazz rendition of the variety of emotions that can arise from being alone)
Mr. Bungle - “California”
Beastie Boys - “Check Your Head”
The Dismemberment Plan - “…Is Terrified”
Beck - “Sea Change”
This is nothing if not a tenuous, tentative and temporary list. But for now, that’s that.
“Anthony Bourdain tends to get noticed. The chef turned televised tour guide is macho but not overbearing, profane without being coarse, and tall and handsome. How handsome? I was at an outdoor social event with my wife some years ago when he passed by, and she was so transfixed by him that she walked into a bush. I hate him for that, but am unsurprised that his charmed life is about to add a new chapter.”—The NYT’s David Carr • Writing about how Anthony Bourdain is all dreamy and stuff. Oh, and his new gig with CNN. (via shortformblog)